Fingers
by TheMadKatter13
Summary: John's favourite cases are the ones that take them away from home. Because afterwards, Sherlock will pass out on his bed in their hotel room, and John can masturbate to his face in person rather than fantasy. Canon Universe


**I meant to finish this for bae's (ao3 users starrysummernights) birthday on time, but then I was slammed with thirteen-hour work days and coming home meant passing out. Sorry for the late present and happy (late) birthday, bae.**

 **Lyrics from the P!nk song ' Fingers' (youtube watch?v=459Z0vbSkIo).**

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 _"Late at night when I'm fast asleep I let my fingers do the walking. I'm almost there when you turn and look at me."_

John thought it fitting that they were in what was considered one of the most beautiful cities in the world, the city of love, because he was staring at the most beautiful thing in the world, the one thing he loved more than anything else in the world.

An old friend of Lestrade's from back when he had been with the French police had heard about Sherlock's abilities and had asked for his help. It had only been deemed a six with the original information, but there had been a case drought, and Sherlock had jumped on it. It wasn't long after they'd gotten to Paris that the case had turned into an eight, and Sherlock hadn't slept for four straight days. As soon as they'd returned to the hotel room after it had been solved in his typically resplendent fashion, as usual, Sherlock had collapsed onto his back on the bed and passed out. John had puttered about for a short bit, making enough noise to make sure that Sherlock was well and truly asleep before he laid down on his own bed, head rolled to the side so that he could stare at Sherlock's face where it was tilted just a little towards him.

The callouses on his fingers made his skin heat and arousal ignite a fire low in his belly as they traced random patterns over the flesh of his belly. The sound of his zipper as he pulled it slowly down was loud in the room, louder than his own measured breaths, especially when it began to scrap over the hard plastic underneath. He dragged his eyes from Sherlock's face for a moment to glance down at his cock as he pulled it out, enclosed as it was in its clear casing.

Twelve months. Twelve months he'd been wearing his cock cage. Twelve months since he became fed up with his own arousal every time he watched Sherlock spit out a rapid-fire deduction and decided to take things into his own hands, not wanting to bother his friend- his _best_ friend- with his own inability to control his biology when he came to the one thing he wanted most but would never be able to have. He'd only msturbated three times since then, only allowing himself to do it when Sherlock was fast asleep fresh off a case, when he was dead to the world for at least a day and a half. Like now.

The key for the cage's lock was tiny, couldn't weigh more than an ounce, but as always, the weight of it when it was pulled from his pocket was hefty, and entirely emotional. John knew he was the only one controlling his enforced abstinence, but the fact that he could only use it when Sherlock was exhausted from a case helped maintain the shaky illusion that it was under Sherlock's control. His heart skipped a beat at the sound of the lock clicking open, and he looked back up at Sherlock as he removed his cage, his cock swelling under his fingers.

John had to bite his lip when he wrapped his hand around his erection, and then exhaled a harsh breath out his nose at the first glide of his foreskin over the hard shaft. It had been so long since the last time that he had to pause with his grip tight at the base, eyes squeezed closed in an attempt to wrangle the rampant fire in his veins. Only when he had himself under control again did he open his eyes, immediately affixing them to Sherlock's face. They traced over eyelashes and cheekbones and lips more familiar than his own as he stroked back up, pausing once more with his fingers in a ring around the crown, though he didn't close his eyes again.

Time passed as John repeated the pattern again and again, stroking down once before pausing, then stroking back up before pausing. At first it was something to keep him from coming too quickly, but after his orgasm had set up shop in his belly, waiting to burst free, he did it to keep it there, to keep himself right on the knife's edge.

He'd always imagined Sherlock would take to being a lover like he did everything else: with intense focus and a desire, a _need_ , to experiment until he'd discovered and mastered all elements. And as much as this was more than 'a bit not good', not to mention rude, a serious breach of trust, and possibly downright illegal, John had decided long ago that if he was going to do it, he was going to do it right. Plus, it was heady to imagine that his best friend wouldn't rest until he had wrested every possible sound and expression from John.

The thought made his waiting orgasm surge against his control, and he had to squeeze his erection as he closed his eyes and tried to wrangle himself again, his body undulating in little waves on the bed. Distantly, he heard cage, lock, and key fall to the floor. When his heart had finally calmed a little, and it no longer felt like he may come from a light breeze, he stroked back up as he opened his eyes again.

Sherlock's head was rolled all the way towards him and his eyes were open. John's heart stopped.

He yanked his hand away and moved to sit up when Sherlock spoke.

"Stop," he commanded, voice deeper than usual and rough in a way that had nothing to do with sleep and everything to do with the way his eyes dilated. At the word, John did just that, both palms pressed to the bed and fingers curled in the duvet. "Wrap your hand around your penis and massage your glans with your thumb only," Sherlock directed next, voice brokering no disagreement. It was a tone John had fantasised about often, the take-charge-and-take-no-refusals tone Sherlock adopted during cases while dealing with the police, but had never dared to hope would be.

Right hand shaking when it rose, John wrapped it around his erection, unaffected as it was by his brief panic attack and the current slamming of his heart against his rib cage. The sensation of the callous on this thumb pad pressing against his wet slit made him hiss and writhe before he took a deep breath and forced himself to stillness. A bolt of lightning shot up his spine when he slid that calloused skin around the red hot and sensitive head, his breath hitching in his throat. Across from him, Sherlock lay still, his chest moving in slow, even breaths, but the bright silver of his eyes was eclipsed by his dilated pupils, and his cheeks were flushed. He didn't blink though. Not once did he blink. Not once did he release John's hypnotised gaze as he continued to roll circles around the head of his aching cock.

" _Good_ ," Sherlock breathed, and John's heart skipped at the praise. A sound escaped his throat, something high and pleading and unfamiliar that made his friend smirk. Instinctively, he knew better than to speak, and he kept his jaw clenched shut, lips baring his teeth and breath pushed forcefully out his nose.

Barely had a minute passed before he had to start breathing out his mouth, the air emerging in puffs and pants and little _"haaa"_ s that he couldn't even hope to control or stop. His building orgasm was a heavy presence burning him from the inside out, urging him to stroke faster and faster, to encourage that release that would leave him boneless. But that obviously wasn't what Sherlock wanted. As good as letting himself come would feel, it wouldn't be worth the disappointment from Sherlock, or from himself.

The need was approaching unbearable, his fingers starting to shake in their loose grip around his cock, his thumb frequently losing its purchase, his other hand clenching and unclenching repeatedly in the duvet, his hips rolling in little circles and his feet twitching to resist the urge of planting them and thrusting up into his own fist. His clothes, normally comfortable and unoppressive, seemed to have doubled in weight, making his skin prickle hot and sweaty under them. He wanted to rip them off, but he hadn't been told he could take his hand off his erection, so he endured.

He needed to last, he needed to wait. Sherlock hadn't said that he could, hadn't given him any other instructions. The part of him that craved orders, that craved obeying and the satisfaction that came from a task well-completed, that _needed_ Sherlock's instructions and his deserved praise, which was normally under as tight a restriction as his cock cage, was alive and thriving, preening under his best friend's unwavering attention. He could not disappoint.

John felt ready to explode, his testicles drawn up tight, his slit leaking pre-come copiously, his erection itself harder and hotter than he'd ever felt it. The air was filled with little whimpers and moans that sounded distant, but he had no doubt they were coming from his own throat. There was simply no way to control both his arousal and the noises, so he didn't bother trying.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock," he gasped, pleaded without begging _'please'_. Because as much as he wanted to come, it wasn't his place to ask. He just couldn't keep his favourite word bottled inside his chest like that any longer. Its presence in his heart was even more powerful than the orgasm in his belly, and it bubbled up his throat and spilled from between his lips in an endless stream. "Sherlock, Sherlock, _Sherlock_."

"That's it, John," Sherlock murmured, voice so soft that John almost couldn't hear it over the sound of his own breathing. His next exhale was closer to a sob and as his thumb continued its slow circles, it shook so badly that it jumped off his tender skin as much as it massaged it. "So good for me." The praise made John shudder, a full body thing that made the muscles in his abdomen clench in antici- "Now, stop."

This time, John did sob as he ripped his hand from himself, clenching his eyes closed and tangling the fingers of both hands into the bedding. His erection throbbed angrily and his hips writhed as they rode the waves of damned pleasure.

"You've been beautiful to me since the beginning, John," Sherlock said from above, from the darkness outside his squeezed-shut eyes. The bed dipped first on one side of his hip, and then the other, as a warm weight settled over his thighs, too far down to even brush against his erection, to give it even the slightest bit of stimulation. "But you've never been more beautiful than you are now. Following my simplest commands, denying yourself your pleasure for mine. _Gorgeous._ "

Both of Sherlock's hands pressed flat to his belly, fingers sliding under John's shirt and thumbs hooking on the hem of vest, button-up, and jumper, pulling them up and exposing the over-heated skin of his stomach. The sound of a zipper had John forcing his eyes open, and he felt his cock pulsate like a dry orgasm at the sight that greeted him.

Sherlock had, as usual, flopped into bed in his bespoke trousers and button-up, and he hadn't bothered to take them off before sitting on top of John. As such, the sight of his own pale erection, standing out from between the unzipped halves of his trousers (he hadn't even bothered pushing them down his thighs), was particularly obscene. So obscenely filthy that it made John feel like he could come without a touch, just a breeze or a word, and he would find his release.

So, of course, Sherlock completely ignored John's cock in favour of wrapping his own up in those long, beautiful fingers. Bright silver eyes peered down at him, eyelids lowered and lashes brushing over high, flushed cheekbones as he began to stroke it in long pulls, fingertips brushing the head of his cock and spreading around the pre-come gathered at the slit. He let out a hum of of pleasure and satisfaction during what appeared to be a particularly firm stroke and John moaned in response, tightening his grip on the duvet to prevent himself from doing something foolish like grabbing Sherlock's thighs or his erection.

"Good boy," his detective purred as he rolled his hips forward, pressing his palm just a little harder against John's stomach to keep him in place. John couldn't even nod, he was too entranced in watching the slide of the other man's cock through his fingers.

The pace of Sherlock's hand remained the slow, even speed that John had used on himself, even up to and through his orgasm. From where he knelt above John, his semen spilled out from his fist to splash in warm drops against the skin of the doctor's belly, marking him, claiming him.

John had to close his eyes against the sight, but that didn't help because then he just saw Sherlock coming on him on repeat. He tried to take a deep breath to steady his heart, but then all he could smell was a mouth-watering musk that made him ache for the first time he may be able to put his mouth to that cock. He tried to settle his body, but it only made him more aware of how hard he was and how much it ached.

"Sh sh shhh," Sherlock hushed him, the hand on John's stomach moving up to cup his cheek, a thumb caressing his lips. Cautiously, carefully, eyes still closed, he pushed his tongue out between his lips, brushing it against the much softer pad of his friend's thumb. There was a brief pause, and then the digit eased fully into his mouth, pressing down against his tongue, a heavy presence filling his mouth. Immediately, he went limp, comforted by the weight of Sherlock over his thighs and the sticky sensation of Sherlock's come drying on his belly and the gentle pressure on his tongue.

Too soon, the other man was retreating, standing from John's thighs and slipping his thumb free. John whimpered at the loss and immediately lifted his head to follow, only to be chastened by a soft, "Lie still."

It wasn't until Sherlock disappeared from the bed that John realised how good he'd been feeling, how much it felt like he was floating until he was falling. His body went tense in the cool absence of its anchor, and he jumped when a warm, damp cloth swiped over the mess on his belly. It lingered against his skin longer than it needed to, but the continued contact was comforting. When even that pulled away, John's hand shot out, suddenly terrified of losing contact with Sherlock. Just as quickly, he froze, unsure if he was allowed, unsure if this new aspect of their relationship was a singular occurrence or something more permanent.

"What do you need, John?" Sherlock asked, soft, undemanding. Surprisingly, it wasn't orgasm he needed most but-

John opened his mouth to answer and found his words stuck in his throat. Long fingers curled around the ones that he'd reached out with and it was that touch that gave him the courage to ask.

"Stay?"

There was a long silence before familiar plastic enclosed his still swollen cock, forcing the ring around his base and testicles. His eyes shot open as he gasped and arched, but a long-fingered hand laid itself on his pelvis, shoving him back down. Sherlock's expression was darkly smug as he locked the cage again, and John's eyes followed the detective's face as he laid down tight against John's side.

Sherlock's pupils were as blown and his cheeks as flushed as the last time John had seen them, and a hesitant smile pulled at the doctor's lips. Sherlock smiled back and leaned forward, pressing his own lips to John's.

"I won't leave," Sherlock promised again. "Go to sleep."

The older man heaved a deep sigh and closed his eyes. As he relaxed into the bed, Sherlock's hand stroked down his cheek to his chin, fingertips tracing the pulse in his neck, making him shiver, before trailing down his chest, thumb pressing down on one hidden nipple, before settling over John's caged cock.

"By the way," Sherlock whispered into his ear, warm breath dancing over the sensitive skin. "I'll be keeping the key with me from now on."

John's moan was weak and helpless, and Sherlock's laugh against his ear victorious.

FIN

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 **Hope you enjoyed, bae. And you too, other readers. Reblog the thing (themadkatter13fanfiction tumblr post/123011854228). Tschüß.**


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